Day 100 of summer : Challenge complete

 I can’t believe I’ve reached the end of my 100 Days of Summer challenge. When I kicked it off back in May, I had no idea what was in store. It wasn’t about saying, “Wow, what a great life I have,” but more about giving myself a good kick up the backside, dragging myself out of the rut I was sinking into, and grabbing life by the short and curlies.

And grab it I did.

In just a few short months, I’ve donated blood, danced at biker weddings, cheered through musicals, laughed until I cried at plays, wined and dined in Trim, celebrated birthdays and weddings, and even managed a spot of spirituality at the Stations. I’ve sung, laughed, cried, and—yes—occasionally come home a little tipsy.

It’s been a whirlwind of music, family, friends, and fun… one of the best summers of my life, all without ever leaving the country. That’s the beauty of being a retired teacher: no more peak-season price hikes.

So here I am: challenge complete, comfort zone thoroughly demolished.

Now the only question is… what next? How about something original, like 100 Days of Autumn?

Day 98: A Sight for Sore Eyes (literally)

 Several years ago, I went to Specsavers for my routine eye check-up. Thankfully, they were thorough because they spotted that I had Keratoconus — a bulging of the cornea.

I only remeber what it's called by thinking of Kerry Katona Eyes!

 I had to have eye surgery, which still gives me the shivers when I think about it. Having your eyelid clamped open while a scalpel approaches your eye? Terrifying. But it went well, and ever since, I’ve been extra cautious about any changes to my vision.

So last week, after a bout of deep cleaning, I noticed little threads floating in my right eye. At first, I thought I had something stuck on my eyelashes. Then I assumed it was something in my eye and went to the chemist for an eyewash. When I explained I had no pain or irritation, the pharmacist immediately told me to get my eyes checked. Apparently, what I was seeing were “floaters,” often caused by changes in eye pressure.

Cue panic mode. My right eye is my “good” eye, so obviously, in the space of five minutes, I had decided it was all downhill from here: blindness, nursing home, the works.

Back to Specsavers I went. After a full round of tests, they told me my eyesight had worsened slightly (hello, new glasses),

 but my retina and cornea looked fine. However, their machines could only see about 20% of the back of my eye, so they recommended a specialist clinic in Mullingar just to be safe.

Two days later, I missed a call — from the Institute of Eye Surgery in Waterford about my “emergency referral.” Excuse me, emergency?! In the time it took me to call back, I had fully catastrophised: I was obviously going blind, and my good eye was seconds from falling out.

Turns out, the “emergency” was just their standard referral. Two days later, I was in the clinic, had all the scans, and finally got the news: My eyes are perfectly healthy. Floaters, it seems, are just part of getting older. (Not loving that bit.)

Luckily, my sister had driven me because my pupils were so dilated from the drops that I looked like a drug addict. 

A week later, I picked up my new glasses, and I have to admit — I can see so much better.

It reminded me of Mrs. Keenan, who had cataract surgery in her late 80s. When asked if she was happy with the results, she said, “NO! Now I can see all my wrinkles!”

I feel a bit like that myself. Getting older — it's no laughing matter.

Day 95: Freakier Friday and Paparazzi Slurry Threats

 One of my guilty pleasures from the 90s was Freaky Friday. So when Freakier Friday hit the big screen, I relived my youth and headed straight to the cinema. Imagine my surprise when I walked in to find… not a soul. The whole theatre to myself.

It reminded me of a very different, yet oddly similar moment from years ago. Back in 2006, Michael Jackson lived in Westmeath for a few months while recording in a studio in Rosemount. One evening, he booked out the entire Mullingar cinema so he and his kids could watch a film in peace.

The locals became fiercely protective of him during his stay. Reporters were sent on wild goose chases, and one farmer even threatened to empty a slurry trailer over a paparazzo’s car! 

My favourite story? The time Michael took his kids bowling in the local alley. Someone pointed him out and whispered,

 “Is that Michael Jackson??” 

The owner calmly replied,

 “No, not at all. That’s just some gobshite from Athlone who thinks he’s Michael Jackson!” Classic.

So there I was, years later, in my own private screening… at a fraction of the price. Thanks for the inspiration, Michael.

Day 94: the Secret to Longevity.....Riverdale style

 

I’m not old enough to remember the days of the Stations in households — when Mass would be held in someone’s home, followed by food, drink, and a chance for all the neighbours to catch up.

But a few weeks ago, Kathleen knocked on my door with an invitation to herself and Shay’s house. They were hosting a modern-day version for all the people in Riverdale and the older members of the parish. I should point out immediately — before you ask — that I fall firmly into the Riverdale category, not the older one.

So, on Saturday at midday, I strolled along their tree-lined avenue, past the lake and the golf course and up to their beautiful house. Honestly, no other house in the parish could have fit us all.

First up was Mass. I did the readings and even volunteered to hear confessions afterwards — but only the juicy ones. Sadly, there were no takers.

Then we sat down to a fabulous meal, washed down with copious amounts of wine. But the real heart of the day was what came next: neighbours, many of whom hadn’t had a proper chat in ages, sat together swapping stories, laughter, and news.

As I looked around the room, one thing struck me. Five people there were in their mid-to-late 90s — and all in flying form. One lady had just celebrated her 99th birthday the day before. She goes to bingo twice a week and keeps up with the bingo book — you need your wits about you for that! Two other ladies, until very recently, used to cycle their bicycles every day the couple of miles to the village. Another lady, whom I often meet in the hairdressers, still drives herself there. My role model!

I recently watched a documentary about a village in Japan where residents live well into their hundreds. Scientists were studying their diet and lifestyle, hoping to unlock the secret to their longevity.

Well, they can forget about Japan. They need to come to Riverdale, Raharney, because I think we’ve cracked it.

Just the day before, I’d been to a biker wedding and came home sober as a judge. Today, after Mass in Murtagh’s, I came home tipsy as a coot.

We’re all pickled — and apparently, it works!

 “Forget clean living — in Riverdale, a good laugh, a full glass, and a busy social calendar seem to be the real fountain of youth.

Day 93: Illness, Peas and Laughter

 

I was quite young when Granda Lynam died. He had Parkinson’s Disease for many years, so that is how I mostly remember him — the illness, the frustration, and the laughter in between.

As a child, I tried so hard to understand what he was saying, leaning in, willing the words to make sense. But they didn’t, and I would feel frustrated and uncomfortable in my childish way. Now, looking back, my heart breaks a little for him. How much worse must it have been for him — a man who had so much to say, trapped in silence?

I was fascinated by him in other ways, too. Like how he’d spend ages carefully piling peas onto his fork, only for them to tumble off just before reaching his mouth. He’d roar laughing and start all over again, like it was the best game in the world.

And then there was his walking — or should I say running. He’d set off down the road at a brisk pace, which would turn into a trot… and then a full-on run he couldn’t control. We’d dash alongside him, ready to help. One day he veered straight into the ditch. We hauled him out while he shook with laughter, which only made it harder for us because we were in bits laughing too.

Granda loved music and drama — maybe that’s where I get it from. Anytime there was a local show, he’d “volunteer” the entire family. Any protests were met with the same line: “Of course you will, you will.” The original Mrs. Doyle!

Recently, a cousin shared a piece written by one of Granda’s close friends, describing him as a gifted storyteller, the kind of man people would gather around, hanging on his every word. Hearing that nearly broke my heart. To think that someone so full of life and words ended up locked inside a body that wouldn’t let him speak… it’s cruel beyond measure.

I wish I had tried harder to talk to him. To find a way through the silences.

All I can hold onto is this: I took his advice. I take my place on the stage whenever I get the chance. Maybe that’s how I keep his voice alive — by using mine

Day 8 6: Play Your Cards Right

 

I swiped my card, which is on my car keys with multiple other cards, at the entrance to the dressing rooms at Mullingar park Hotel leisure centre and nearly went head first over the turn style when it refused to move. I didn't panic too much.. I had renewed my membership earlier this week so maybe they hadn't ungraded my card yet. I took my cards and went up to the desk. I explained my situation to the guy on call and showed him my card. He looked at it quizzically, turned it over once or twice and announced

"Eh, Madam… this isn’t your membership card. This is your Dunnes Stores Clubcard."

I looked down in surprise. Sure enough, he was right. I’d love to say it was an easy mistake to make but… my membership card is white, and the Dunnes Stores one is dark green. Not even cousins in the colour chart.

I mumbled a swift apology, swiped myself in properly this time, and made a beeline for the far corner of the dressing room, hoping the tiles would swallow me whole.

Time for a trip to Specsavers, methinks

Day 81: A wedding gift from Dad

 

There’s a deep, unshakable connection between Paolo Nutini’s Last Request and my dad.
Not because it was ever his kind of music — far from it — but because of one bittersweet moment.

When Dad died, I had to drive home from the hospital to get a few things. On the way, I played that song on repeat. Something about its sentiment hit me right in the heart. After that, I couldn’t bear to hear the album — never mind that track — again.

Fast forward to my 50th birthday. I was sitting in a café, surrounded by Christmas cheer, when suddenly Last Request came on the radio. Completely out of season, but I knew instantly — it was Dad’s way of letting me know he was near.

Ten years later, on my 60th, I kept an ear out for it. And yes — there it was, playing once again. Dad, checking in.

I wasn’t expecting to hear it again for another decade, but life had other plans. We were at Emma and Florin’s wedding, seated before dinner. Drinks were flowing, chatter was loud and happy, when suddenly I froze. I’d been totally unaware there was music playing in the background… until that song started.

Paolo was at it again, still looking for his Last Request.
It was the perfect touch to a magical day.

We all feel Mam and Dad looking over us, but moments like that make it crystal clear. Earlier that day, my brother John had taken their wedding photo and run it through AI — what came out was incredible, almost like bringing them back to the room with us.

 

So here’s to you, Mam and Dad. We see you. We hear you. And yes… we’re listening. ❤️

Day 79: Family, the best legacy we can leave

 

Several months ago, my niece Emma rang me with a request.

“Would you be the officiant at my upcoming wedding?”

At the time, I was in the throes of a migraine. Truth be told, she could have asked me to referee a sumo wrestling match in Tokyo and I would have agreed—anything to get her off the phone so I could crawl back into bed.

The next morning, with the migraine fog finally lifted, panic set in.
“What on earth have I agreed to?” I thought. I rang her back to explain the obvious—“Emma, I’m not a celebrant. I can’t marry you!”

She calmly reassured me. “Oh, you don’t need to be. Florin and I are already married.”

Of course! Emma and Florin had tied the knot over two years ago. But back then, there had been no ceremony, no family, no friends, no craic. Now, they were planning to mark the moment properly, and my role would be more of an MC than a legal officiant.

“Why me?” I asked.

Emma paused, then replied: “Noeleen,  you’re a primary school teacher… and a drama queen. You’ll be perfect.”

Perfect might have been pushing it, but for these two wonderful people, I was ready to give it my best shot.

Emma, being the organised, no-nonsense woman she is, wrote a beautiful ceremony—and asked me to add a few personal touches. My one big idea was to welcome Florin’s family in their own language. So Florin became my Romanian tutor. Honestly, it felt like I was preparing to host the Eurovision.

The days before the big event were filled with all sorts of appointments—dressmaker, spray tan, hair, makeup. And that was just me! I’ve no idea what the bride had to endure.

We all descended on the Hyde Hotel in Galway, not quite sure what to expect. We all know exactly what happens at a typical Irish church wedding, but this was uncharted territory.

I checked the room beforehand—it was magical. I set out my bits and bobs, waiting for the guests to arrive, nerves steadily rising. 

My main concern was giving Emma and Florin the day they truly deserved.

Then the music started, and Finian walked his beautiful daughter down the aisle.

 The ceremony was everything we’d hoped for. It must have been emotional—my sister Geraldine cried so much she lost her false eyelashes!

And then… I could relax.

What followed was a night of food, drink, laughter, music, and dancing. My memories are slightly hazy—not from migraine this time, but perhaps from something a little more… fermented.

I do distinctly recall a dance-off—Romanian traditional dancers versus the Siege of Ennis—which somehow morphed into a Riverdance collaboration. Then there was the conga line: a glow stick-waving procession out of the function room, around the residence bar. Ah, teenage years revisited.

As I think back on the day and night, one thought stands out: how lucky I am to have the family I have. I once told someone that our family has never fallen out. They didn’t believe me.

Now, I’m not saying we didn’t beat the heads off each other as children—but as adults, we’ve been nothing but close. Seeing all my nieces and nephews singing and dancing together last night, and then watching my grandniece and grandnephew instantly bond with their London cousin, I felt so proud.

We’ve passed down something far more valuable than possessions—we’ve passed down the importance of family. And that, to me, is the greatest legacy of all.

Day 74: From Stage Blood to Real Blood

I got a lovely text today from the Irish Blood Transfusion Services — a little message with a big impact. It simply read:

And just like that, I got all the feels.

There’s something incredibly powerful in knowing that a pint of my blood — something I gave in about 10 minutes, sitting comfortably in a chair — has now gone on to help someone else. A stranger, in a hospital, getting a fighting chance because of something so simple. The feel-good factor is off the charts.

Of course, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Having just been to see Little Shop of Horrors at the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre  AGAIN (and what a show it was!), I’m very aware of what happens when you start giving blood to another living being… although thankfully, in this case, there’s no man-eating plant involved. Just some real-world goodness and a tiny prick to the finger.

So here’s to small gestures making a big difference — and to giving blood, not feeding the plant.

Day 71: 92 years of age and still stirring the pot(plant)

 Today myself and my two sisters made our way up to visit the one and only Auntie Peggy. It wasn’t just any visit — it was her 92nd birthday, and as always in our family, there was a bit of friendly competition about who could bring the best present. Birthday bragging rights were at stake, and we all came armed.

So serious were the stakes that my cousin Fionnuala had called to my house the evening before, plant in hand. She couldn’t make the trip herself, but she wanted to make sure Peggy got her gift — a lovely potted plant — and that her presence was symbolically felt. Of course, in true Lynam style, the delivery came with a disclaimer and a challenge.

Naturally, I told her there was every chance I might keep the plant for myself and tell Auntie Peggy she’d forgotten all about the big day. Fionnuala, not to be out-bantered, replied with a perfectly deadpan request:
“Can you take a photo of her with the plant? I’ll need evidence.”

Fair enough, I thought. So I snapped a lovely photo of Auntie Peggy with her leafy new companion and sent it on.

But that wasn’t enough.

“Can you take it from a few different angles?” came the next message.
“I just want to make sure it definitely is my plant.”

Now, for most people, that might sound a bit paranoid. But anyone who knows our family will recognise the dry-as-dust Lynam humour a mile off. Still… part of me couldn’t help but wonder — was she joking? Only Fionnuala knows for sure.

Either way, Auntie Peggy was in flying form — smiling, storytelling, and making 92 look like the new 72. We chatted, laughed, and soaked up the kind of joy you can only get from being surrounded by your nearest, dearest, and most sarcastic.

Happy birthday, Auntie Peggy. Here's to many more — and to plants, presents, and perfectly timed punchlines.